


Get the Right People

by LaurelSilver



Series: Victimised [28]
Category: Nine Lives (Band)
Genre: Blood, Bloodlust, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Eye Trauma, Gore, Head Injury, Multi, Red Room, Vampires, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:26:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28522374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaurelSilver/pseuds/LaurelSilver
Summary: "Get the right people in your corner/'Cause you gon' need 'em."Gadjet, Just Pretend.Aron wears a shirt, I'm so proud of him.
Relationships: n/a
Series: Victimised [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/910587
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Get the Right People

**Author's Note:**

> NAMES ARE USEFUL;  
> Aron; Deuce  
> Tony; Gadjet  
> Victim; anyone you want them to be. The only requirements are that they have a voice, two (or more) arms and two (or more) feet. Beyond that they can be anyone you hate. Call it catharsis. Gender doesn't matter, Victim is referred to as 'they'.
> 
> Just to be very clear;  
> 1\. I have not done, nor do I have any intention of doing, anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fiction.  
> 2\. I don't think Gadjet and Deuce have done, or have any intention of doing, anything described in this fic.  
> 3\. I do not encourage or condone anything described in this fic. This fic is pure fic. Recreating this fic, or anything similar, is illegal and immoral and very fucked up.  
> 4\. You are not obliged to read, finish reading if you start, or comment/kudos if you finish. There is no story here. It just mindless violence for no real reason.  
> 5\. Victim having any similarities to anyone real or fictional is unintentional.
> 
> REITERATED WARNINGS;  
> This fic contains eye trauma and head trauma  
> This fic also contains cannibalism and descriptions of eating  
> This fic also contains supernatural themes

Aron stood over Victim, pick-axe in hand, grin in place, blood up his chest.

The door opened. “Yo, Aron, where’d you put the-”

Aron yelped and whirled. The pick-axe swung high.

Tony’s jaw dropped. The pick entered his face in the outer corner of his right eye. For nine full seconds the world ran in slow motion as the metal tooth dug through the bone and into the soft eye. The eye popped out of Tony’s skull and hung over Tony’s cheek in a mix of red and phlegm. The pick continued, gouging through the emptying socket and into his nose, through the nose and into the other eye. The blood spurted from the inner corner, soaking the wall in a dense spray. The right eye, holding on by a tendon, dropped and hit the floor

The nine seconds passed. Tony’s legs buckled and his body followed his eye down with a slump.

The pick-axe had gained half a ton and Aron staggered with it. He dropped to his knees, staring into the split skull like the real Tony would come climbing out of it, laughing that he’d gotten Aron good.

But nothing happened. It was different when it was someone Aron knew. Someone Aron cared about.

Victim was wailing into their gag. Aron breathed hard and turned on them. The grin was gone, his lips relaxed until they covered his oversized teeth. A sheen of shocked sweat had developed on his forehead and was helping the blood sprays, both Victim’s and Tony’s, stick his dark hair down until the mix of blood and sweat was dripping into his teary eyes.

Aron pounced and pinned Victim to the floor, his hands around their neck. The camera above them carried on blinking as Aron filled its recording frame. Later, Aron would breathe a sigh of relief that he hadn’t been livestreaming.

Victim wailed and kicked, broken arms laid out useless by their sides. Their eyes bulged as their lungs panicked for oxygen. Then their eyes bulged wider as they stared out past Aron, and Aron became aware of movement behind him.

“Dude,” Tony said, “I just wanted to know where you put the damn lighter.”

Aron screamed and dropped his grip on Victim. He scrabbled for his axe and held it close to him as he turned.

Tony was sat upright, feeling around him for his eye. His left eye was so full of blood it was impossible to tell if it was damaged or not. Blood was gushing from his empty eye socket, and brain was hanging from his empty nose socket. He pressed two fingers to the brain and shoved it back up where it came from.

“What the fuck?!” Aron said.

“I can explain,” Tony said, “Just… can you help me find my eye?”

“What the fuck?!”

“Look,” Tony said, and later they’d laugh at his poor choice in words, “I saw you, okay? I saw you, standing over someone full of holes, with a pick-axe in your hands. I saw the camera. I saw the blood on you. I know you’re doing some fucked up shit, so don’t get mushy on me now. Just pass me my eye.”

Cautious, Aron plucked the eye from the floor. Tony groaned like he was travel sick. Aron ran a curious finger over the side of the eye. It was smooth and squishy, and pretty much how he’d expected it to feel.

“Dude, I can feel that,” Tony said, his shoulders cringed up to his ears, “Just… give it back!”

Aron dropped the eye in Tony’s waiting palm.

“Thank you.”

Tony ran his thumb over his own eye, wiping dust away gently. He held it up, the blue cornea pointed at Aron.

“I see you,” Tony grinned.

“Fuck off, you can’t,” Aron said.

“I can. I can see your shirt’s a mess. I can see there’s more blood on your left shoulder than your right. I can see your fly’s undone.”

Aron looked down. His fly was only half-undone, but the fold of denim over his crotch was pushing it open. Aron zipped himself up.

Tony chuckled. He picked up his eye by its tail and tucked it back into the socket. He tipped his head back and peeled his eyelid open wide to try to let the eye drop back into place. The eye sat itself on top of the eyelid and almost rolled away before Tony snatched the tendon.

“Need a hand?” Aron said.

“Yeah,” Tony said, tucking the tendon back into his eyelid.

Aron stood over Tony and kept the eye in place as Tony tugged on his eyelids, trying to figure out a way to squeeze the eye back into his skull. His other eye, miraculously undamaged, fluttered with every movement. Thin red cried out of the eye and dribbled down his cheek.

Aron hooked a finger under Tony’s upper lid and pushed the eye. It slid into place with a pop and Tony yelped.

“Oh shit,” Tony folded over, hands pressed over his eyes, “Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.”

Tony stayed down for almost a full minute, palms digging into his eyes as his head churned with pain and healing. Slowly, he rose his head and let the light in.

His vision swam, shapes soft and distorted as they vibrated before him, his brain scrambling to fix itself as his skull knitted itself back together. He blinked, and the shapes became clearer. A person on the floor, arms broken, gagged. The camera on a tripod staring down at the person. The blood. The lights. Aron.

Tony turned to Aron. There was still a hole in his nose, but a piece of bone was extending out of it, growing like a buried man climbing out to the oxygen.

“What the fuck,” Aron said, staring at the bone. It grew smoothly in a straight horizontal line, and by now was growing little antlers down to form the shape of the bone.

“Can I give you the short version?” Tony said, “This shit got me pooped, man. Need a dinner and a nap.”

“Sure.”

“I’m a vampire.”

“Fucking what?!”

“That’s the short version!” Tony threw his hands up, “I drink blood and have some fucking useless abilities.”

“I dunno, man. Your healing-from-an-axe-to-the-face ability was on lock today.”

Tony snorted. “Only ‘cause I ate this morning.”

“Cornflakes give you healing powers?”

“No,” Tony laughed, “I, like, ate-ate. Like… I saaaaacked their blaaaaaad!”

Aron had to laugh.

“So, uh… are you done?”

“What?”

“With your friend. I ate this morning, but this,” Tony gestured vaguely to his face, “Kinda took it out of me.”

Aron blinked at him. On other day, he’d be sure Tony was fucking with him. But when you’re sat watching skin grow down your friend’s nose, sagging a little with no cartilage yet, you’re inclined to believe anything he wants to tell you.

“All yours, man,” Aron gestured back at Victim.

Tony’s gaze dropped from Aron to Victim. His jaw tightened in excitement and his blinking became forced, like his brain was trying to preserve the image into Tony’s brain.

Tony lurched past Aron, straddling Victim. Victim yelped as its arms were forced out, broken bones grinding against each other, splinters breaking off and twisting under its skin.

Victim kicked out, feet hitting air. Tony dipped his head and latched onto a gouge in Victim’s left shoulder. The skin puckered up into his lips, kissing him back as he sucked on the flesh. The blood gushed slower than he’d like, thickened to sludge as it tried in vain to heal, survive.

A thin splint for bone broke away from Victim’s mashed shoulder and dove up to Tony’s mouth in a final defence. The splinter dug into Tony’s lip and dug straight through until it hit tooth.

Tony groaned, adjusted his mouth, and kept on sucking. His tongue lapped out into the gash, pushing through to caress the torn muscle below in tight circles.

Victim shrieked and thrashed in Tony’s grip. His hands were firm on its ribs, fingers digging into its skin like he wanted to crack the bones beneath like a nut and devour the grey flesh within. Victim’s limp arms dragged on the floor, useless, its hands unable to even curl into fists.

Aron remained on the floor, pickaxe loosened into his lap. He watched Victim writhe, its howls barely drowning out the wet sucking noise. Tony was bent over to an angle that couldn’t be comfortable, his shoulder blades pressed back until they had to be touching, his spine twisted and hunched, his hips pressed down into Victim’s stomach, his legs tight into Victim’s sides.

Aron whipped his head away, trying to look anywhere else but there was nothing to look it. The blood sprays to Aron’s side had settled out into clusters of red puddles. Blood didn’t normally behave like that. Aron stared until he realised why it was unsettling him so much.

Tony’s blood didn’t leave a stain. It had gathered into little puddles without leaving a trail of red behind it.

Aron watched as two of the smaller puddles drew together into one flat blob. It was all moving, slow but sure as Aron watched on, drawing together into one wet mass. The red bobbed up and down on a flint of white like waves on a beach.

A hand reached over the blood and plucked the piece of bone out. Aron recognised the hand’s tattoos as his own before he’d even realised he’d moved. The bone lifted out, the blood running straight off and leaving the bone unstained.

Aron held the piece up to his face. It was a small piece, curved, barely as big as his fingernail. It was so thin Aron found himself thinking of egg shells, of cracking a skull into a pan for a Saturday morning breakfast, of the way bones have broken under his boots on camera. So delicate. Surely the armour to such an important organ should be stronger.

Aron pocketed the bone and stood. He’d expected the flint to feel hot and heavy against his thigh but it disappeared into the denim.

Pickaxe in hand, Aron circled Tony and Victim. Victim’s upper arms were twitching and the occasional strong thrash dragged its hand across the floor, but for the most part Victim looked more like they were shimmying into Tony’s assault.

Aron cleared his throat. The cough died into Victim’s screams. Aron leant down and tapped Tony on the back of the head.

Tony’s head whipped up. A piece of Victim’s skin was caught between Tony’s teeth and hung from his lips in a thin, jagged strip. Tony sucked it in like tagliatelle.

“You good?” Aron asked.

Tony nodded. He looked tired in a satisfied way, like he’d just the orgasm of a lifetime and was basking in its glorious afterglow. As his heavy lids opened, his pupils were dilated past the iris into the white by several millimetres. His jaw worked fast, grinding the flash between his molars, his tongue racing along the ragged edge to coax out every drop of that sweet, sweet fluid. The splinter in his lip twitched as it was touched but remained sat unnoticed.

“You, uh,” Aron trailed off. Questions were bubbling over his tongue, battling for dominance, and each question sprung between his teeth only to get choked back by the next question. “Uh, what, uh… Uh, when, yeah, you, uh… Uh… You know… Uh…”

Tony wiped his mouth on his hand, only smearing the blood thicker into his lips, and spat out the flesh. It was crushed and misshapen, like used tin foil, perforated in places and unrecognisable. The colour had drained out until the meat had greyed.

Aron stammered and his stomach forced him to sigh before it sent his breakfast and breakfast beers back up. “You don’t eat the meat, then?”

“I could,” Tony said, “It’s just hard to eat. Blood’s easier.”

“You can just drink that, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

The men stared at each other.

“So,” Aron said, “You, uh, you do this often?”

Tony snorted. “Only when a handsome guy like you shows up,” he chirped.

“What?”

“Nothing, man. Making a joke.”

“Oh.” Aron tapped the side of the pick axe against his leg.

“Weekly,” Tony said, “I do this weekly. Can sometimes skip a week but I feel like absolute shit if I do.”

“Or need another if someone caves your head in.”

“Yeah. Happens more often than you’d think.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, a whole once. Needed it like a fucking hole in the head.”

Aron laughed. Tony laughed and tried to wipe his mouth again, and rubbed the blood further up his cheek.

“What about you?” Tony said.

“Huh?”

Tony gestured to the pick axe. Then back to the camera. Then back to the pick axe. Then up to the blood soaking into Aron’s skin like lotion. Then back to the pick axe.

“Oh. Uh, monthly. Ish. Depends on the money. And what I need the money for.”

“That ain’t live, is it?”

“No. It’s a video. Few K for a requested video of a head cracked in with a pick axe. The rest I was gonna cut and upload, some to buy, some on edgelord forums with a link to the ones you have to buy.”

Tony blinked. “Not that different to music, really. Like, posting snippets and shit.”

“I guess.”

Except the killing had made Aron more money than music ever had. Not that it lasted, but sitting down to write music had become hard when Aron knew there were bigger figures to be made without the mortifying ordeal of talking to managers.

“You can still use this, right?” Tony said.

“What? The film? Yeah, I’m cutting it down anyway.”

Tony coughed like he was about to say the most casual thing. “You can’t film the head split from all the way over there.”

“What?”

Tony got up and lifted up the camera. Blood clung to the dried blood already clinging to the side of the camera. He padded back to Aron and Victim and shooed Aron out of the way to stand over Victim. He fiddled with the settings, focusing on Victim’s wide eyes and silver tape gag.

“Scream for me, baby,” Tony muttered.

Victim sobbed, staring hard into the lens. Aron pressed a foot to a hole in its arm until they howled into the gag and threw themself out of Tony’s just-nicely-focused shot.

Tony tutted and seized them by the hair. He dragged them back into the shot and the lens auto-focused until Victim’s face was picked out, pixel by pixel, tear by tear, blood on their skin and shot through their eyes.

Aron pressed on the hole again and Victim’s howl climbed to a screech. They shook, trying to wrench themself out of Tony’s grip but Tony held fast, forcing them to stare up into the lens as fresh pain twisted in under Aron’s boot. Their eyes scrunched shut, tighter and tighter, until Aron let his heel dig in.

Victim’s eyes and nostrils opened together. Blood welled around Aron’s heel and tears welled under Victim’s lids. They sucked in and screamed, long and raw, until their lungs were forced empty. An inch of tape managed to push up just under Victim’s nose, not enough to let them speak but enough to let their voice escape, torn and tired and ragged.

Aron let his foot drop back, let his boot drag on the floor. The blood sank into the cracks in the concrete and stay put, as blood should.

“Get lower,” Aron said, “Near the floor. From above.”

Tony followed the vague instructions and lay on his stomach, camera aimed for the crown of Victim’s head. His feet went up to kick idly like a schoolgirl writing in her journal about kissing boys.

“Put your elbows on the floor,” Aron said. As Tony glanced over the camera at him he added; “Holds your arms still so the camera don’t shake. Don’t fuck the money shot, man.”

“Okay, okay,” Tony grumbled. He pressed his elbows into the concrete, camera perched between his bloody hands. He gazed into the camera’s screen, committing its image into his memory, hair slicked up, body writhing, blood slinking through the cracks above Victim’s shoulders like wings forming to fly them away.

Aron stepped over Victim’s torso. He stared down and his brain screamed at him to focus and line up his pick axe but his stare bore down to its neck, to the skin sucked out into a duck’s bill. Little tooth marks had dug in, dark and traceable.

Aron found himself seized by the urge to drop to his knees, to wrap his mouth around the skin and suck and bite. He wanted to know what it was like. He wanted to feel the rush that had gripped Tony, the bloodlust that dilated his pupils beyond any drug, the elixir that brought Tony back from literal death.

As his knees shook, ready to buckle and hand him over to the desire, a straightforward voice inside him reminded him that it was only blood. He was full of the stuff. He was soaked in the stuff. He was born in the stuff. He would more than likely die in the stuff. The stuff was only blood and for him, it would do nothing at all.

Aron hated that voice. Partly because it was such a fucking killjoy, partly because it’s dry tone and sharp intonations reminded him of a teenaged Jorel, but mostly because it was almost always right.

Aron shook himself back to sense and leant down, pick axe gripped in two hands right at the far end. He lowered the pick until he could comb it through Victim’s hair as they panted.

“You got that in shot?” Aron asked. He was bent over to the hips, back ninety degrees to his legs, flat ass stuck out.

“Little to the right,” Tony said. “My right. Your right again. No, back. There. You’re bang in the middle.”

Aron’s cheeks hurt. They always did in shots like this. It was impossible for him not to grin as he raised the axe above his head. Aron let the axe rise until it hurt, until his arms were pulled back over his head, until his shoulder blades were surely grinding against each other.

Gravity pulled and Aron pushed. The pick swung in a vicious arc, Aron’s spine rolling and his knees softening to follow the movement through, his body bowing down to force all his strength into one sharp move. The handle extended his arms into a claw and dug, deep and fast, into the crown of Victim’s skull.

Brains exploded on the camera lens. Red and grey burst out over the concrete, over the tech, over Tony, in a thick splatter that clung and dripped in clumps.

Tony gasped, one part shock to nine parts untameable joy. He backed up, camera dropping a little as he took in the glorious mess surrounding him.

Aron stood, the pick dragging through the gloop of grey matter and shattered skull. He ached, his back knotted and his shoulders stretched. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, a glorious side effect of both his pain and inflicting pain, and movement was forced back into his over-pushed muscles as he lifted his head like a curious python.

Victim whimpered. An obvious dent sat in the middle of their skull, giving them a heart-shaped face as their hair line opened like a canyon to let precious grey jelly leak out. Aron’s mind cast back to Betty Boop cartoons and he couldn’t for the life of him remember why he ever watched a Betty Boop cartoon. Betty’s cutesy little jingle chimed in his head as he forced himself to stand tall again, pick axe balanced casual in his hands.

Tony’s surroundings crashed in on him and he remembered himself, remembered Aron, remembered his impromptu role here on this basement floor. He lifted the camera and tried to focus. It took him almost a full eight seconds to realise that the lens was obscured corner to corner with blood.

“Uh,” Tony said, “Is your camera okay?”

“It’s waterproof,” Aron said. And so far it had withstood several bloodbaths without a hitch.

“I think it needs wiping.”

The sentence “Wipe it then,” sat in Aron’s mouth until he looked at Tony and realised the pair of them were soaked in blood and gore. Their shirts, their jeans, their hair were as red as the lens.

Aron sighed. “We need to find something to clean it with.”

Tony rose, his limbs moving on autopilot as his gaze remained focused on the pixelated red in the little screen of the camera. There was something beautiful in capturing the beauty in the horror in front of you.

Aron looked around like a clean cloth was gonna drop from the ceiling. Shockingly, no clean cloth materialised.

Tony tried to wipe the lens on the corner of his shirt. The blood smeared and a little off-centre circle came clean enough to see through, a window through to Victim’s shoulder. He stumbled a little, brain out of focus. The smell of blood barraged up his nostrils and begged him to consume, to feast on flesh and red, to bite and suck and swallow.

Tony staggered around Victim, his human side forcing himself forward to refrain from the feast he was so ready for. His eyes darted about for anything, _anything_ that wasn’t soaked in red.

A slim patch on the back of Aron’s shirt was clean, the navy blue seeming to shine out amongst the blood. Tony homed in, stepping over Victim to seize Aron by the shirt and rub the cotton blend against the glass.

Aron froze up. Tony was one for hugging, but not one for coming up behind you and pulling on your clothes. Not even if you were the sexiest woman he’d seen, he had slightly more manners than that. The wet fabric pulled over Aron’s chest as Tony dug it into the corners of the lens, polishing the glass as best he could without a decent glass-polishing kit.

Tony wiped the rim of the lens one more time and decided it was clean enough. The shot angled down Aron’s body, detailing the little dip in the back of Aron’s ill-fitting jeans, the waistband of his knock-off Calvin Kleins, and an unfortunate drunken hip tattoo that doesn’t deserve description. Tony traced down Victim’s side as he stepped away from Aron, circling back to his place at Victim’s head.

Tony crouched down and focused on the little canyon above Victim’s brow. He fiddled with the settings until the unfolding tendrils of brain wavered into clarity on the camera’s screen. Tony traced them down as they vomited out of the blown skull and onto the concrete in a lumpy pile.

Victim groaned. The noise had changed, pitchy and confused.

Tony lay himself back down, elbows to the floor, camera perched above. Aron was still frozen over him, his shirt sitting over his hips as the blood held it up, wet fabric clinging to itself and Aron’s skin. The once still-clean patch on his back stood out in a bunch like a duck tail.

“Aron?” Tony said, “You gonna hit em?”

“Huh?”

“The money shot, man. You gotta kill ‘em.”

Aron blinked and reality sank back in. He had to kill Victim if he wanted the money. He had to kill Victim if he wanted the rush. And fuck knows he wanted the rush.

Aron raised the axe and slammed down. And rose and slammed. And rose and slammed. And rose and slammed.

Blood, brain and skull exploded like a child’s plastic toy mid-tantrum. Red, gray and white blossomed over the camera’s take as the head of the axe flashed in and out of view, a silver blur cleaving through the soft meat.

The warehouse was silent between the wet slices. Tony held his breath as he stared, time frozen around them.

Strain built in Aron’s stomach until it ached and Aron had to stop. He panted as the axe swung in a low arc and he staggered back. His foot hit Victim’s hip and he dropped straight onto his backside, perched on Victim’s legs.

Tony remained, camera focused tight into the grey-and-red maw open in front of him. Tony stared over the camera for several seconds before his hand pulled away from the camera and reached.

His fingers dipped into the meat of Victim’s decimated brain. It was warm and wet, and Tony brought his fingers back to lap at them, and the taste of metal rushed to fill his mouth and seize him with desperation.

The camera dropped and the lens cracked as Tony dove forwards to press his face into the skull. His hands pulled on Victim’s unmoving jaw as he tried to pull it in closer, tried to get his mouth and tongue pressed in deeper.

Later, Aron would cut his clips together, send off his money shot and upload his snippets where he wanted. The rest would go on a mulit-passworded hard drive and the computer and camera reset to clear the data. But now, Aron was watching back over a bowl of cornflakes as the shot of Victim’s skull clattered, crashed and cracked Tony dropped it. The shot was engulfed in red then black as Tony had laid over the camera to eat. Their conversation rang in Aron’s head as he watched Tony dip and devour, like something out of a bad horror movie. But Aron had seen it in person, seen his face reconstruct in front of him, and he knew something so abnormal couldn’t be just pretend.

Aron sat and watched, and he could feel the bond of criminal camaraderie forming deep inside of him, a pact of silence and support that didn’t need speaking aloud.

**Author's Note:**

> Aron is not a heavyweight anything. I had to say it. He's not. Back when this song was recorded Aron was a spindly little fuck. I know he's gained some weight since then but I still wouldn't call him a heavyweight. Aron, please watch more contact sports before making reference to them in your raps. Research is important.
> 
> I'm sure none of you have noticed, but the '9 seconds' refers to the '9 Lives' band name. I know it's a bit sad but it amuses me.
> 
> Anyway, go find a facebook page for your favourite/local sports team and scroll through some of their memes. There might be some cringey memes, but what's a meme without a little cringe, right?


End file.
